Since the Kariba Christian Centre was not working out for us, it really did make sense to consider a trip back home. We were feeling torn. We knew we needed to stay away from Wedza, but had discovered that there just wasn’t sufficient infrastructure to support our ministry in Kariba. Kariba was just too far removed from the rest of Zimbabwe. If we wanted to reach the rural areas, we would need easy access to Harare where there was a large community of African Christians who could be drawn into our efforts.
Our trips to South Africa every few months to renew our visitor’s visa also provided the opportunity to stock up on supplies that were not available in Zimbabwe. International business sanctions had been lifted with the transition to Zimbabwe from Rhodesia in 1980, but the local economy was almost three decades behind. [With Marxist rhetoric, it would probably take decades for 1984 Zimbabwe to catch up. Of course, under Mugabe’s dictatorship, Zimbabwe’s economy was completely destroyed by 2000. In 1984, one US dollar was worth three Zimbabwe dollars. Before Zimbabwe abandoned its own currency in 2007, one US dollar bought 100 billion Zimbabwe dollars!] We could visit the border with Zambia at Kariba for visa extensions, but there was nothing to buy in Zambia. Their economy was in worse shape than Zimbabwe’s. Driving from Kariba to Johannesburg, South Africa was a three-day trip. From Harare, it was only 7 hours across the border to an air-conditioned motel, car spare parts, tuna fish, Nestle’s Crunch and Kentucky Fried Chicken. Then it was a pleasant 5 hour drive to Johannesburg with more opportunities to fill up with petrol and KFC!
The morning before the last Mahombekombe meeting, my father phoned to say that he had suffered what might have been a small stroke. He had always been 40-50 pounds overweight for his 6’3 frame, hadn’t paid attention to his health and was at risk for a heart attack. My mother divorced him when I was six. My relationship with him had always been bumpy, especially since he “had me” on on weekends and during summer vacations all the way through my school years.
He had a sales job that kept him traveling between his second apartment in Houston to Phoenix and Los Angeles most of the time. So, he was rarely around. When he was in town and made plans for me to spend the day with him, he was always several hours late. I remember spending entire Saturdays waiting for him. This was long before cell phones and often, after being delayed all afternoon without calling, he would finally call in the evening to say that he wasn’t going to be by to “get me” after all. I spent three six-week summer vacations with him during my junior high years. These were business trips for him, but great vacations for me hitting all the western state tourist spots and making two trips to Disneyland in California. I actually lived in the Beverly Hills Wilshire Sheraton Hotel for six weeks one summer. My days were spent at the hotel pool while he called on customers. Evenings we dined at famous restaurants and saw dozens of stage shows by Hollywood entertainers. That was fun, except that he would drop me at the hotel after the show to go on a date with someone he met that night. Despite his size, he was a handsome man with blue eyes. Women were attracted to him. The first significant evidence of this was his high school librarian when he was 16. She showed him things in the library that were outside of the standard curriculum, if you catch my meaning. Aside from his success attracting women he was capable of making friends with anyone instantly. Everyone liked him from doormen and waitresses to CEOs. His problem was not starting a relationship. It was in sustaining relationships. Whether with me, his brother, his dates or three ex-wives, there was universal agreement that Marvin Wasserman did not know how to demonstrate his love in an ongoing relationship.
He had come from a poor Russian immigrant family. His father, a housepainter, died from a heart attack when Dad was only 10. He lived with his mother and older brother until he joined the Navy at the outbreak of World War II. He was a “born” salesman, finding success in the jewelry business in the first few years after the war. As such, he made a lot of money in the 50s and 60s. Unfortunately, he seemed to think that the best way to show his love was to shower family and friends with gifts. Hey, I’m not complaining! I didn’t mind the gifts at all. It is just that I would rather have his attention.
Anyway, in the late 70s he suffered a number of financial setbacks. By the 80s, he was living on social security disability after having declared bankruptcy in the 70s. Interestingly, our relationship improved dramatically once money was no longer his means of showing love. Nevertheless, our relationship was still a bit bumpy.
We had already decided to make a visit to the States, but this solidified our plans. I needed to see him before he had the inevitable final heart attack. He and I had spoken numerous times about God and he had become seemingly more open to considering a relationship with Jesus. Of course, I was feeling the pressure of the evangelical doctrine that everyone had to accept Jesus as savior, even the children of Israel. Evangelical Christians take the “great commission” very seriously:
And Jesus came up and spoke to them, saying. “All authority has been given to Me in heaven and on earth. Go therefore and make disciples of all the nations, baptizing them in the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit, teaching them to observe all that I commanded you; and lo, I am with you always, even to the end of the age.” [Matt. 28:18-20 NASB]
I felt that I had a responsibility to reach my father with this important message before he died. And, maybe this recent mini-stroke would have awakened him to his need for Jesus.
[Once again, as I reflect on this 26 years later, I understand what an unfair pressure this put on our relationship. And, of course, I no longer hold to that Christian faith perspective. As a Jew, I value the moral and ethical teaching of Jesus. I often remark the Jesus is my favorite radical reformist rabbi. Also as a Jew, I value Christianity as the successful embodiment faith in God for the gentiles. However, I have come to reject the traditions that arose in later generations transforming Jesus the Galilean rabbi and prophet into God.
We booked flights and arranged to have the money transferred from our bank in South Africa to the travel agent in Harare. In preparation for our arrival, we began writing letters to churches and individuals we hoped to visit in America.
Norman made the long trip from Wedza-Harare-Kariba to plan with us before we left. The work in Wedza continued to grow under his guidance with continued financial assistance from Dave Hess and Pastor Francis from the church in Domba Tomba outside of Marondera. Knowing that Wedza was in good hands gave us the confidence that we could go away for a few months without the work fizzling out.
After dropping Norman at the bus for his return to Wedza, we got a call from the Centre’s switchboard saying that Tinos was downstairs with someone he wanted us to meet. So, we headed downstairs to the lounge. When we saw Tinos’ friend, we were shocked. After all, this was deep in a sparsely-populated and little visited part of Zimbabwe. But, there having tea with Tinos, was an Hasidic Jew with black coat and hat, tzitzit hanging from his waist and side-curls.
He was a 28-year old Australian Jew hitchhiking from South Africa to Somalia where he planned to meet up with his African fiancé who traced her descent from Solomon and the Queen of Sheba. We had many things to argue about (I mean “discuss”) that afternoon, so I didn’t think that it was my place to tell him that there were no roads for about 700 miles of his hitchhiking trip! He would discover that soon enough.
Tinos had been witnessing to him, trying to convince him that Jesus was the promised Jewish Messiah. The Australian, Michael, was surprisingly open to discussion, but Tinos felt that he was out of his element. That is why he had come to find me! He was certain, that as a Jew myself, I would be able to make a convincing argument to Michael.
Michael was happy to take me on in the continuing argument (“discussion”) with Tinos. Michael had been on a spiritual quest himself. He was a “Wandering Jew” too! In his wandering, he had even attended a Roman Catholic seminary for a few years. He had extensive New Testament knowledge, and when it came to theology, he was much better versed in Christian thought than I was. Of course, I had never been well-schooled in Jewish beliefs either. So, I was worried that this guy might have me for lunch! Well, that would be better than the Centre’s mutton!
During this period in my life, I was confident in my commitment to Jesus. However, I had always been a bit intimidated by observant Jews. It wasn’t that I thought that my position was wrong. It was just that I did not have the training in Hebrew and the years of practice in theological debate is the heart of Orthodox Judaism.
My Jewish background had made me comfortable with theological debate and argument. Jews are taught to question everything. This is the primary method of inquiry in the synagogue. I had discovered that my Jewish tendency to question truth assertions and my inclination to debate or argue made me unwelcome in most Christian theological settings. For most Christians, everything was settled. For me, as a Jew, everything was subject to piercing investigation. As if to illustrate just that point, later that afternoon, one of the visiting missionaries at the Christian Centre took me aside to upbraid me for “arguing” with Michael. I explained to him that this is the Jewish method of intellectual discourse. I don’t think he bought it. I suspect it confirmed his stereotype of all Jews as argumentative troublemakers.
By 1984, this was my third encounter with a Jewish “authority.” The first had been with my childhood rabbi, Chester Diamond in 1969 when I first became a follower of Jesus. In that first encounter with a learned Jew, I had held my own, employing Psalm 22 and Isaiah 53 to make my case. Rabbi Diamond was only the “assistant” rabbi back then at Adath Israel, and I don’t think he was prepared for the emerging Jewish Jesus movement. [For more information on Jewish faith in Jesus, order my $9.99 eBook, Messianic Jewish Congregations: Who Sold this Business to the Gentiles? iPad/Kindle, Nook] Later, I would encounter him as the senior rabbi at my mother’s funeral and again when writing my doctoral dissertation. He and I were both better prepared to support our arguments then. My second Jewish encounter was with the rabbi in Bulayawo during the Rhodesian War. [“The French Would Sell their Mothers”] I felt that I had handled myself successfully there as well.
Michael was not about to admit that my arguments were valid. Frankly, I won a few, but I think he won more! My basic argument concerned Jesus’ assertion that he was “the way, the truth and the life; no one comes to the Father, but through me” ( John 14:6 NASB). So, he was: (1) a deceiver, (2) deceived or (3) or what he said he was--the way, the truth and the life.
Tinos ran into him again later. While not admitting that I had won any points, Michael said that he believed he had been led to our meeting by God. Tinos and I both interpreted that to mean that I might have gotten through to him. More than likely, he saw God leading him there to help me find my way back to a Jewish path. Thinking about it now, that was probably the case!
I had one other encounter of note before leaving for the States. The morning before our flight out of Kariba, I met an African journalist who worked for ZIANA, the Zimbabwe news agency. He was a born-again Christian who was stationed in Kariba. However, he had been born and raised in a Jewish village outside Rusape. There are several tribal groupings of African Jews in Africa. The largest and best known was indigenous to Ethiopia. The majority of these Ethiopian African Jews were rescued and settled in Israel (Operation Solomon). After finishing university and sometime after the end of hostilities, he had been presented with the gospel and become a follower of Jesus. So, here we were, two Messianic Jews at the border of Zambia and Zimbabwe!
And now it was time to go home, but where was home? Sure, Louisville was my birthplace as Houston was Pegi’s. But, a few months into our marriage, we had made our home in Africa. Now we were back and beginning to feel as if we really belonged. Most of our ministry support was from South African and Zimbabwean Christians, white and black. As we prepared for our trip to Houston and Louisville to connect with our birth and spiritual families, would we find the same kind of acceptance from our American spiritual family that we had from our African spiritual family? Could we go home to the States, raise the support we needed and quickly return to our African home?
The Kariba airport had one runway. The weekly flight to Harare was in a two-engine propeller-plane reminiscent of something out of a 1950s movie. Before we could take off, a Land Rover raced down the runway to chase off the elephants and zebra who were grazing on the grass at the sides of the tarmac.
A few days later, we boarded a KLM 747 in Harare. Our flight would stop in Arusha, Tanzania where we could see Mt Kilimanjaro in the distance, Khartoum in the Sudan, Vienna, and Amsterdam. After a 10-hour layover in Amsterdam including a boat ride through its canals, we once again boarded a KLM flight for the flight to Houston.
Tuesday, 18 September 1984
--After ten months in Africa, we are back where we started, but 3118 souls for the kingdom richer!
Next: The End of the Journal -- Not the End of the Journey
